


Food maketh man

by Janus_my



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Cultural Differences, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22183483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janus_my/pseuds/Janus_my
Summary: A complete tasting menu of U.N.C.L.E undercover agents' life in Rome
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 14
Kudos: 72





	1. Amuse-boche

A Russian burnt his mouth. 

_Excerpt from Napoleon’s diary entries, in Rome._

Peril is in general, uncrackable. Just like his motherland - aloof, stoic and located as far away as possible from jumpy and wimpish on the emotion spectrum. Well, most of the time, I should say. 

Today is not the day. 

It was steaming hot in outside. Gaby was away with Weaverly, leaving me and Peril trapped in the apartment. With Mediterranean sun blazing outside, neither of us had any appetite for lunch. Peril locked himself in his room and did not respond when I asked what he wanted for lunch. So I went into the kitchen and scrambled around our food stock - not much. Some sorry-looking tomatoes, a handful of wilted basil, a shrunk cucumber and wrinkled red onions. All byproducts of cruel Mediterranean summers. 

Those are good for salsa, though. So I started off by chopping everything in small dices before remembering a dish I had back in Spain. Chilled spicy gazpacho. It tasted lovely - just the right amount of spice to wake you from numbing heat. Tasted extra lovely when being served by a tall, dark and extremely handsome young Spaniard at the bistro. Current circumstances were not as lovely - I can certainly make a lovely gazpacho as it was a fairly easy thing to make. But Peril only qualified for one of those three afore-mentioned adjectives. Alas. 

I tossed a few chopped pepperoncini into the fine paste of tomatoes and cucumbers, drizzled some olive oil and stirred them up. Illya emerged by the kitchen door frame and stared at my mixing bowl with deep suspicion. “What is this?”

“Relax, Peril. It’s just soup.” I threw in some basil leaves, added a pinch of salt to draw out water and put the bowl into fridge to chill. “Sorry it’s not borscht - hard to find beets here.” Peril snorted. 

To be honest I only had encountered borscht once in my life. And it was not pleasant, since it was prepared by Peril. He claimed that my knowledge of adding sour cream and paprika in borscht is “a betrayal to the Soviet spirit”. The end result was a bright red mixture tasted like dirt - a bowl of existential sadness. Illya said I hated borscht (beets, more accurately) because Yankees all lived under Red Scare. Ha.

He also stated that I should be grateful that I can enjoy a bowl of rich tastingborscht (which I agree, rich in a sense that potatoes, tomatoes and beets are having a bloody civil war in that bowl), as he only got to eat schi during the hard days. Schi, as I understand, tasted quintessentially and unmistakably Soviet - hour long boiled cabbage, tears from the Motherland and children’s wish for a better family. At least I am doing a favor of introducing Peril to some actual edible soups now. 

While Peril was silently judging, I chopped a few more garlic cloves. Then I got the chilled gazpacho out and poured it into small bowls. Peril stopped me before I added garlic for garnish. “No garlic for me.” 

I shrugged. “Didn’t know you worry about bad breath.” He responded with his hard death stare. I picked up some leftover bread from Gaby’s breakfast (rye, ugh. No oneexcept me in this house can appreciate a decent slice of French garlic bread.) and brought our gazpacho to the table. Peril had set the table - brownie points for good manners. 

I took a spoonful of my soup - heavenly. Brought me right back to the small Spanish town and an afternoon well-spent with the attractive waiter. Peril studied my face, waited around one minute - perhaps making sure I didn’t poison the soup - and finally tasted his. 

He went red. All red, crimson red in an astonishing speed. He had this expression on his face - the kind of face you would make if someone used a shovel to hit right on your nose and then hard on the back of your neck. He reached for the bread on the side and started to shove it down his throat - I thought he was trying to choke himself to death. So I offered him a glass of water. The water was gone in no time.

This spectacle - bread, water and bread again - went on for a good three minutes before Peril went back to his usual self. His usual I-will-kill-you-with-my-bare-hands -and-the-time-is-now self. “What’s the matter? You allergic to anything in the soup?” I asked him.

“This is not soup. This is abomination. You should tell me I need a fire helmet to eat this thing.” Peril replied, tapping his trembling fingers on the table. “Did you make this with fine gunpowder and nitroglycerin?” He added that he will never be tricked into eating this again, unless absolutely necessary (i.e. having a gun pointed to his head) and having a fire extinguisher or an entire fire brigade by his side.

Then the penny dropped. That’s why Peril wanted no garlic in his soup. He was, as a matter of fact, intolerant of anything spicy. Those chopped pepperoncini did him good. 

Who would have thought? For someone from a country that froze Wermacht to death, launched a satellite to space and was accustomed to drink motor oil, Peril is incredibly frail when it comes to heat. His Motherland has been around for the Mongols, Napoleon (the other one) and the Nazis. He has been around for famines, riots, the purge and Gulags. But a handful of hot chili peppers can send Peril in toxic shock and make him clutch his chest in utter horror. 

I should buy more Frank’s Red Hot. Clearly, someone like it hot. 


	2. Hors d'Oeuvres

An American miscalculated his scheme. 

_Excerpt from Illya’s diary entries, in Rome._

Cowboy is in the kitchen again, making some kind of small bites. _“Hors d’Oeuvres, Peril.”_ Americans and their obsession with French. Obnoxious. 

Saw him boiling half a dozen of eggs this morning. He also got a jar of conspicuous looking yellow condiment from the market - There is no picture of obese children on the packaging label, so not peanut butter. This could be the newest of his experiment. Ever since the soup incident - a small accident - Cowboy has told the joke countless times. He declared if America ever wants to invade the Motherland, all it takes is just pepper spray. Then he went on to sneak spices into my dish in every possible way: he made Georgian-style ajika paste with deadly amount of boiled chili peppers and insisted that his way was original and authentic. Typical Yankee balloon heads thinking they had everything right in their way. Authentic ajika paste are made with tomatoes and bell peppers with absolutely no heat at all. We don’t put spicy elongated reddish vegetables into our food - does carrot count? 

There was sound of Cowboy flapping his side towel - meaning he was done with preparing and ready to serve. It was a plate of boiled eggs. Took him the whole morning to boil six eggs? “You are slow.” I said. 

He raised an eyebrow. _“Look closer, Peril. It’s called Deviled Eggs.”_ Turns out Cowboy had picked out yolk from boiled eggs, mixed it with something (better not be spicy) and placed the mixture back into the hole with a piping bag. Can’t understand the point of taking out egg yolk and eventually putting it back to where it was in the first place. Very American: take something from its original place, mess it up in every possible way (wreaking havoc in the meantime) and dump things right back with a disclaimer “we came with good intentions and it is not our fault that things escalated”. Deviled indeed. 

Took caution this time. Sniffed the thing before taking a bite. Mustard, vinegar and a hint of pepper. So that’s what Cowboy brought back in the jar - mustard. He must have thought he could put on a rerun of his spicy soup show - he thought. This mustard is not even close to the great mustard of USSR. Ours can activate a self-destruction sequence of human flesh, turn people into a rocket ship and shoot them right onto the moon. Should have brought a tube of those and substitute it with Cowboy’s peanut better spread. So much for “PB&J”. 

The American seemed to enjoy his eggs - he even said it would taste much better with salmon roe or caviar. Corrupted hedonists. He urged me to try one, with that eager innocent puppy-eyed face. Fooled me once, not this time. I ate one, and another, and another with no difficulty. His face went from “the show is on” to “wait what” and then to “well did the Russian evolve this quick” and finally to “oh well Red Peril 1 Yanks 0”.

Try me, Cowboy. 

P.S.

He must be plotting his next step now. Would it be paprika on deviled eggs next time? Must check carefully. 


	3. Lunch No.2

A Russian struck back

_Excerpt from Illya’s diary entries, in Rome._

American cooking , as demonstrated by Cowboy , can be summed up as lunch No.1 Chicken and pasta with Grease on it. _“It’s called Parmesan cheese, Peril.”_ Clearly a capitalistic lie. Cheese is inedible before being melted and mixed with mayonnaise. Hard, snow-flake like grated cheese is a sign of pathetic bourgeoise tastebuds. 

Sometimes, when Cowboy is on his day and goes to the butcher’s shop himself, he does lunch No.2  \- k nown as Steak and weird green vegetables with Blood. _“Asparagus and Brussel sprouts, Peril.”_ Complete nonsense. Cabbage , carrots and pickled cucumbers are decent vegetables. Potatoes, too. These piss-smelling little green thing is not. And “rare” steak is a joke. Possibly he is trying to poison me with uncooked meat. Need to stock up on medicine. 

Had lunch No.2 today. Turns out Cowboy’s poisoning plot shot his own feet - not figuratively. He excused himself for more than ten (? could be more. Stopped counting after the sixth one. Should keep a note next time) bathroom runs during one chess game after meal. He claimed the butcher tricked him by substituting good meat with unfresh ones because he “ _had a fling with Silvana, the butcher’s daughter_ ”. 

He had it coming.

Offered him a glass of brine from my pickled tomatoes to ease his stomach. Not out of sympathy for enemy of the people - absolutely no sympathy on that. Simply because I still need to use the bathroom which he has occupied for a good portion of the day. Cowboy had a sip and immediately spit it out. His face twitched. He yelled at me, accusing me of murdering a poor patient. _“Don’t you have mercy? What is this, a glass of industrial level concentrated sodium? And where does that sourness come from? Is that tomato in the jar?”_

Explained to him that he was welcome. Usual cure for diarrhea (or any other aliments) back in Motherland is vodka. But brine from pickle jars is just as good, especially from pickled tomatoes jar. Even offered him one pickled tomato. With doubt, he took a bite. Unfortunately, Americans were not experienced in this pickled-tomato-eating craft, despite his other cunning tricks. He just bit too hard - bust the pickled tomato and produced a stream of tomato juice that hit him in the eye. He made a beeline to bathroom sink and claimed I was trying to blind him with this vicious atomic bomb disguised as food. Really. I asked him whether he has a dosimeter ready.

After he was done cleaning, he went back into the dining room and asked me why on earth would anyone pickle a tomato. What a stupid question. We just do. Or try to. There ’ s nothing that we don ’ t pickle. Zero things. Nobody can stop us. Next question. Hypocritical Westerners. 

I told him.  “ You should try our pickled apples. Good with vodka. ” I should make those. Tired of always choosing between my pickled beets and tomatoes. 

He winced at the idea. He said that’s such a horrible thing anyone could do to innocent apples. _“Apples - fresh, aromatic and crispy, best served as a heartwarming pie in winter nights- anyone wants to put them in brine until they turn salty and mushy should be locked away for crime against humanity.”_ He sighed. _“Your country is indeed, a difficult place to understand.”_

Says a Yank. 


	4. Christmas Special (and Petit Four)

A duo united.

Weaverly informed them that they will stay low in Rome for a while before new mission comes in. They had just flew in from Istanbul after an exhaustive and precarious operation. Illya almost didn’t make it onto their escape van - he blamed Napoleon later for feeding him too much food when in Rome. “Your cooking - it made me slow.” The Soviet murmured while Gaby and Napoleon eyed Red Peril’s waistline. 

They are all in desperate need of a break. Luckily, Christmas is coming up and no one (not even the most treacherous spies or gangsters) will be scheming now. It is time for gift shopping, festival food and family reunions. They three form a family alright - an odd one, but nevertheless. 

Gaby went out to the market with Napoleon’s grocery list, while Illya offered to help Napoleon with decorations. They don’t have many shining balls and tinkling bells - they don’t have a home for decoration to speak of. They have apartments, cars and colleagues. Napoleon sometimes refers to Illya as companions. _“Work companions.”_ The Russian would correct him. But not homes. 

Illya was putting up a glass ball on the kitchen door knob when he heard Napoleon asking  “ I thought Soviets do not celebrate Christmas? Like , real Christmas. You guys probably have someone named Sergei to give a communistic speech? ”

Stop talking. What does he know about Soviet? He never understand one Soviet soul. 

Napoleon won’t give in to the hard, silent stare from Illya.  “ But you still have New Year , right? With the tree and glass globes and everything- “

And the everlasting but never realized hope that things will get better with a simple turn of calendar page. Still, Illya replied, “And a red star on top for the Motherland.” He finishes his kitchen decoration and turned to Napoleon. “Life is suffering. Joy is a western corruption. And our way is martyrdom for the glory of the motherland.”

The American cocked his head in confusion and sarcasm. “Deep. I will leave it to you to make everything about crime and punishment.” He then asked. “To change the topic completely - what do you usually eat for Christmas - or New Year - at home?” 

It was a long time ago when Illya had a festival meal with his family. He was little - with his father still around and his mother still her caring and charismatic old self. He remembered how his mother will call him to come and have his oatmeal breakfast in the New Year morning. “Come and eat your gerkulesovaya kasha!” She would say. Then he would rush down to have his whole-milk-boiled oatmeal with raisin and honey. Mother would watch him devouring the entire bowl, scolding him for having no table manners and saying he would soon be a grown man thanks to these nutritious oatmeal. 

Then things happened. Father was gone. Mother turned to drinking and hysteria after that. Illya went away to train for the KGB. He still tried to come back for the New Year to be with his mother. Their food went from borscht rich with lard to buckwheat kasha. His father used to joke that their borscht was so thick that it can be lit as a festival candle. But now buckwheat was the only thing they can afford. Still he enjoyed his buckwheat kasha. It’s the time spent together - how they got a bag of buckwheat, sat down together to pick out the husk and dirt from cereal and talked about mundane and trivial things like weather. It was simple and peasant like. But it was family.

Now he has none. 

“Peril?” Napoleon was staring at him. “Are you alright?” 

Illya paused his reminiscence. “We have Olivier salad for the New Year. Sometimes.” He went on explaining. “It’s a… salad. With potatoes, pickles, carrots, peas, boiled eggs and - when time is good - sausages.” 

“And the dressing?” Asked Napoleon. “Wait, don’t tell me - mayonnaise?” Cowboy had expressed his abhorrence when he learnt Soviets put mayo into everything. By everything it means EVERYTHING - even on soups. Yeah, put that on your plate, wimpy Yanks. 

Napoleon was counting with his fingers . “So that’s potatoes, eggs, mayo -also eggs - more potatoes, some non-spicy red vegetables, and cured meat. And you call it an Olivier-“ He stressed the French pronunciation Oli-ve-ye, dragging the last syllable. “Very French indeed.” _As if only he can do_ s _arcasm._

Illya sneered. “What’s so French about you, Napoleon? Oh wait, don’t tell me: vainglorious, constant need for self-validation, and lost the fight to Russians?” He decided to rub it in so he went on. “Oh, we have something called Herring under a fur coat as well - it’s marinated herring, topped with mayo, then topped with potatoes and onions, and on top of that, beets and carrots. It’s so red that Americans wince from it.” He actually never expect any Westerner to understand this dish. To most people it sounds like a layered version of Dante’s hell - looks like one too, with beautiful bright colors but is more than ready to ambush your senses. The crimson color of beets and the round layered display make people assume it is a sweet appetizer - wait until they taste the last layer of herring - the horror. 

But it is something Soviet at heart. Most Westerners depict the Motherland like onions and herring, proud of centuries of giving zero fucks. But deep down Soviets would like to think of themselves as chopped carrots, eggs and beets, delicious, balanced and hearty at the bottom of their hearts. 

Napoleon frowned. “That sounds - like hell. You have some other unfathomable and barely moral festive food to tell me about?”

Barely moral? Is this an American invitation of war? In fact, Illya weighed the possibility of making a whole kholodet just to smash the meat jelly-o - the entire quivering mass with mushy meat, fat and carrots - into that arrogant pretty face. Only a weak nation will have something like pie in the face. It is not the Soviet way. 

But that would be a waste of good food. So instead Illya gave a warning, for the sake of U.N.C.L.E. “Don’t try to pick a fight, Cowboy. If you look for it, you will find it.”

The black-haired devil was not convinced. “Says the man who cries while eating mild salsa.” 

Damn the Yank. Damn El Gringo. He should learn. 

Gaby returned from the market. She was greeted by a deadlock between the two global hegemonies in the world - Team USSR had Team America locked down on the floor with an armbar, while Team America pressed hard against Team USSR’s crotch. Neither of them seemed to bother untangling themselves and helping Gaby with groceries. 

So much of these two each being _one of our best_. “You two are not dumb. You just do dumb shit.” Gaby looked around the living room - littered with shattered glass, plates and overturned table - and added. “I don’t know what you are doing. But you guys seem to have a good time.” 

That night both Illya and Napoleon went to bed with aching pain and on an empty stomach. They broke all their plates and bowls - great weapon and quite handy for domestic fighting. 

Illya slept in the following morning. He dreamt about home. There was snow in his dream - everywhere. Snow fell on the seesaw in the yard. Snow fell on the window sill of their apartment. Snow fell on his lashes when he went after the car his father got into. Snow fell on the tire track and covered it up quickly - within hours forgetful snow wiped out the track, as if nothing had happened and everything was in its right place. And it was quiet. 

Then he was waken up by noises in the kitchen. A lot of noise, to be exact - kettle whistling, cutting and chopping sounds, and occasional bangs from a stirring spoon. He got up and went into the living room, where he can see Napoleon ran a delicate operation among the kettle, cutting board and a boiling pot. Their small kitchen smelled like a mixture of onions, butter, cream and boiled potatoes. The smell, familiar and reassuring, has a strange domesticity to it. 

“Morning, Peril.” The American greeted him without turning. “Gaby was out to do some last minute grocery shopping. I left some kasha for you - on the table. Also, go get some new plates and bowls since you smashed all of them last night. And I did the cleanup. You are welcome.” 

Illya grunted, making an I-know-somebody-just-said-something-to-me-and-if-I-make-a-noise-maybe-they-will-shut-up kind of noise. He finished his kasha (which was boiled with whole milk in Russian style, tasted surprisingly good) in silence, and went out to the market. He did not take orders from Cowboy, but he figured that they do need plates to eat. 

It was already Christmas day so most shops were closed already, The usually busy streets felt deserted and unreal, while on the side apartments were warm with lights and buzzing with sounds of children, cooking and reunions. Illya went on with his journey searching for tableware, as a well-trained agent will never abort his mission unless absolutely necessary.

And he found some (small, intended only for decorative purposes) plates at a gift shop that was about to close. The kind owner mistook his intentions and scolded him for rushing his gift shopping. But she smiled while wrapping the plates up, saying “But… How do they say it, in English? Better late than never.” Illya thanked her and walked out, with the old lady locking doors behind him and wishing him a merry Christmas. 

He clutched the small package under his arm and started to hurry back to their apartment. He walked past doors with decorated mistletoes and foggy windows with gibberish in children’s handwriting. He thought of a complete different life that he had not chosen, one that he had left behind. He would like to imagine sitting down by the table and being surrounded by family members who he had a love-hate relationship with. He would willingly picture himself decorating the tree and toasting loudly with loved ones. He would love to think that he had a place to return to and some people to go back to. 

But those are illusions. Nobody gets to choose in the first place. People like them - Illya, Napoleon and Gaby - this life was thrust upon them. And before they knew, they have nothing left but the past. Whenever they were just a bit tempted to live for the future, they would speedily abandon the idea, because then they felt the wounds that imagination of future inflicted on those who dared to have it. They were cheated of the future - what do they have? Tomorrow they could be anywhere in the world - anywhere, more than likely to be six feet under. Cowboy said it once to him, that they all lived on borrowed time. Every new morning was a stolen one, and tasted extra sweet because of that fact. 

Typical thief talk, Illya thought to himself. Napoleon, who has a moral backbone of a croissant, used it to justify his way of living - pedal to metal, always the fullest. But Cowboy had this strange trick to turn monotonic days of their lives into something real, something with more color and aroma. Believe it or not, secret agents’ life can get dull real quick. Day in, day out - almost died in field, stay low for a while, new mission coming in - then everything went on repeat. Life with Cowboy has more spice, more variety, and sometimes even more verisimilitude. For long Illya felt that he was living a noir life of someone else - a model Soviet who he fought for so long to become but barely knew. Then the black-haired American happened. And his world burst into color. 

Talking about spices and aroma. He was at doorsteps of their hideout apartment and already heard Napoleon scolding Gaby for stealing bites from the table. “Where the hell is Illya?” He heard Gaby complaining. So he pushed the door open and went in.

“Speaking of the devil! Did you go back to Moscow to buy those plates?” Napoleon took over his package and frowned when he saw the tiny plates. “I guess we all need to have second helpings tonight.” He said while giving Gaby the plates to set the table. 

Illya was stunned when he saw the dishes. A bright crimson-top layered salad cake, a large pot of Olivier salad, a roasted chicken with pearl barley risotto on the side, and an apple pie. “What’s with that judging face, Peril?” Napoleon came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on the apron. “I thought I made some Motherland dish for you? I followed the exact recipes from you.” 

“Nothing. They look good.” Illya said. In fact, those food looked divine - they came out of a life he never had a chance to live. For this fleeting moment that life came to him. 

Napoleon was running a commentary while serving a generous helping of Olivier salad to Illya, making the disclaimer that this salad has much to do with France as winning World War II does. He also explained why he substituted the herring in the layered salad into shredded chicken: “We don’t need herring to test our resolve to live. I believe everyone in this house has went through the test under various circumstances before and does not want to relive the experience.” Illya responded by a snort. “You are weak - if that’s what you are trying to say.” He said.

To his surprise, Napoleon nodded and smirked. “I am. And blessed are the meek.” Dammit. 

Gaby intervened just in time to stop World Ware III - by making a bang sound with her fork on her glass. “Stop it, you two.” She raised her glass for a toast. “Bon Appétit.” 

Napoleon joined the toast saying _Salute_ , while Illya has already dived into his food and was too full-mouthed to participate. Illya ate with one arm maneuvering the fork and the other encircling the plate like a fence: like a prisoner. Even if he didn ’ t particularly appreciate the aroma of truffles in his risotto and claimed chicken as a substitute for herring was high treason.  “ It ’ s my food. ” He murmured in between chewing. 

God damn it. Communists. Napoleon shook his head and pushed the Olivier salad further to Illya’s side. In their precarious way of living nothing is constant. They learnt to drift along and hold on to nothing. Friends became enemies, traitors or dead corpses. Enemies became colleagues, partners and in the unlikely event, friends. Tomorrow is far too distant a concept for them to conceive and conjure. 

But the food you eat is real. Food maketh men. Food they are sharing on this table contains their past, is their present, and will - if only they dare to think about it - be their future. Life goes on. And life goes away. It may not get any better, or any worse. But at least they can have tonight together, enjoy a good meal and quality companions, and savor the sweetness of life. 

Later, Illya dug out a small box of Russian chocolate and a bottle of vodka from his suitcase. He insisted that he was not saving them specifically for tonight - “Not at all.” - but thought these can serve as a fine finish for their dinner. “Ah, petite four.” Gaby accepted the sweets delightfully.

The rest of the night escalated quickly after Napoleon dared Illya into a drinking contest, even after the Soviet stated “drinking with Russian is the second highest-ranking causes of death for Americans.” After numerous toasts of nonsense - from the point of “To health! To the lady!” to the social Darwinism point of “To Motherland! To America!”, Napoleon suggested a final toast when both of them were almost hitting the ground. 

“To la dolce vita.” The Cowboy whispered in the Soviet’s ear, satisfied to see Peril went all red. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I am not writing in my native language so please point out mistakes and wrong references.   
> This is inspired by a trip to Russia and subsequent reading about "What on earth did I eat".


End file.
